


Odd Cravings

by dahdeemohn



Series: Playing to Lose [2]
Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Injury, Introspection, Memory Loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2017-01-23
Packaged: 2018-09-19 12:55:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9441233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dahdeemohn/pseuds/dahdeemohn
Summary: Elias gets injured, Tom informs Corey. Corey doesn't care.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This has been sitting around in my WIPs for a long time, and honestly I didn't know where else to go with it so here.

Like most of the WWE Universe (a term which crawled right under his skin), Corey found out about Elias’ injury the same way that everyone else had had: via Twitter.

“Poor bastard,” Corey remarked to exactly no one, in his otherwise empty one-bedroom apartment, and continued to scroll through his feed. The plague of injuries within WWE was merciless, took no prisoners, and it wouldn’t be any shock if Elias’ obnoxious tendencies had earned the ire of whatever reigning deity that watched over humanity. Not that Corey believed in such a thing. Still, poor bastard, that Samson.

Ultimately Corey would have been fine to leave it at that, to invest no further thought into The Drifter’s ailments, but then Tom, the one person on this planet that was perhaps even more insufferable than Elias, had contacted him. About Elias. It was one awful person talking about another, and Corey sneered at his phone screen, ready to snap it in two. For whatever reason, Tom had taken it upon himself to inquire if Corey had heard the news, as though the year wasn’t 2016 and he wasn’t social media-savvy. A most horrid offense, as horrid as Tom’s existence and Elias’ existence. 

The phone was silenced and set onto his nightstand, any further text messages forcefully ignored, and Corey stared up at the ceiling as he tried to focus in the dark. Sometimes he made shapes and patterns out of the swirled textures in the drywall, mostly abstract in nature, and always reminding him of smoke. He thought a lot about smoke: the way that it curled towards the ceiling from pyrotechnics, how he’d swing by the bodega around the corner from his parents’ home and the group old Portuguese men puffed away at their cigars out front, the way that he felt it billow out of his ears when he had to call matches with Tom.

The odd cravings for a cigarette that he never understood, usually followed by a cluster headache behind his left eye. 

The smell of patchouli incense when Elias happened to be around. 

He turned onto his side, no longer able to focus on the ceiling, then turned to the other side in a restless fit. The phone was yet again retrieved, and he scrolled through his Twitter feed to try to obtain any further information; it wasn’t even information that he _wanted_ to have, as much as it was his job to have it. Sure enough, there was breaking news from various outlets about the injury, but no updates on Elias’ condition.

Instinctively, he went to pull up the contacts in his phone, but his thumb hoovered over the button. Corey didn’t have Elias’ number, so he couldn’t reach out and.

Honestly he had nothing to say. Fuck if he even cared where Elias was holed up. He ignored the cravings, ignored the vague uneasiness as a whole, and rolled over to try to pass out.


End file.
